Lady Vixen (87 page)

Nicole
blanched at the venom not only in his tone, but in the hard gold eyes that
bored into hers. That he believed her capable of such perfidy left her feeling
sick and drained of every vestige of fight. Wearily she said, "Very well,
if that is what you believe, I'll not try to change your mind. Tell me, do you
intend to turn me over to the authorities also? I would like to know so that I
may pack a few things to take with me."

Her
calm acceptance of his accusations left Christopher staring at her in angry
dismay. No, he wasn't going to turn her over to the authorities, he almost
shouted, she was his wife! But what was he going to do? And did he honestly
believe those terrible things he'd thrown at her? As some semblance of
coherency trickled back into his thoughts, he realized that there were certain
things about what had happened this afternoon that were decidedly odd. For
instance, the lunacy of meeting at Madame's when he was expected at any moment.
And that warming brick that had been hurled at him. There had been no warning
that he was about to burst in on them, so what was she doing with it? The ugly
surmise crossed his mind that Allen had been making a nuisance of himself and that
Nicole had been protecting her honor. And if that were so...

Christopher
swallowed painfully, as it occurred to him that this time he had well and truly
leaped to very wrong conclusions. Hesitatingly he said, "Nicole,
I..."

But
it was too late. Heartsick, wounded more than she could have thought possible,
Nicole regarded him hostilely. "What?" she spat. "Have you
thought of further crimes to add to my list?"

"No.
I . . ." he fumbled, his ready address failing him in the face of the
enormity of his accusations.

Her
eyes were scornful as Nicole regarded him. "Oh, have you had second
thoughts?" she asked sweetly. At Christopher's curt nod, her face blazed
with fury, and crossing to stand in front of him, she gritted, "Well, it's
just too damn late! I'll never convince you that I am not my mother's daughter,
will I? You have to cling to that idea, don't you? I hope it gives you
pleasure, and don't worry that I'll try to change your mind—I would sooner try
to roll back the tide than to waste my time with the likes of you!" Her
voice breaking just a little, the topaz eyes bright with tears, she said in a
small voice, "Get out of my room and stay out of it. Right now I don't
think I ever want to see you again."

Christopher
made a move to touch her, but furiously shrugging off his hand, she whirled
away and, running to the bed, flung herself face down on it, the tears
uncontrollably slipping down her face. In a muffled sob she said, "Get
out! Leave me alone and let me be."

Still
he hesitated, but knowing she was too hurt, too angry to listen to him now,
Christopher did as she requested, shutting the door quietly behind him.

His
own anguish was almost unbearable; he was aware that with one jealous,
thoughtless action he had shattered the fragile bond between them. But I'll
make it up to her, he thought unhappily. Somehow I'll make her understand, and
maybe if I'm lucky she'll forgive me.

But
if the passing days were anything to go by, Nicole wasn't going to forgive him,
he decided wretchedly. She treated him as if he were a leper, and he, so very
conscious of that wrong he had done, was helpless to bridge the widening chasm
between them. Was this to be the end of their frail beginning?

Avoiding
his own home, Christopher spent more and more hours at Jackson's Royal Street
headquarters, and because of that he was there on December 23 when Major
Gabrielle Villere, Colonel de la Ronde, and Dussan La Croix burst into the
general's headquarters with the appalling news that the British were encamped
on the Villere plantation just nine miles from New Orleans.

Jackson,
his body wasted by disease, his face thin and yellowed by jaundice, swayed for
a moment at the news but then straightened proudly. To Christopher watching
intently from the doorway, it was as if he suddenly took strength; the lines of
pain smoothing from his face, vitality springing from some unknown inner
source, he was like a different man—a fighting man with fire in his eyes and
bravery in his heart. Taking a sip of brandy, he calmly ordered the assembly of
his secretaries, aides, and other members of his staff. And standing before
them, he said, "Gentlemen, the British are below. We must fight them
tonight."

What
happened in the following days on the plains of Chalmette below the city of New
Orleans is history: Andrew Jackson won a most decisive victory over the
British. There is no denying that the outcome might have been vastly different
had it not been for Jean Lafitte, his men, and his ammunition and flints.

The
Battle of New Orleans was actually two battles with scattered fighting in
between, the main and final battle taking place on January 8, 1815, in the cane
fields of the Macarty plantation. The loss of life was terrible; the British
lost over two thousand men in only two hours in a vain attempt to breach the
earthen barriers that Jackson had strewn before them. American losses were a
mere seventy men, although those seventy men were as important to the Americans
as the two thousand had been to the British.

The
British also lost two of their most able leaders, Major General Samuel Gibbs
and Major General Sir Edward Pakenham. Casualties among the more junior
officers and sergeants were crippling—one regiment alone lost twenty-four
officers, including its colonel and twelve sergeants.

Indecisiveness
and lack of communication between commanders cost the British the Battle of New
Orleans. They should have won it: they outnumbered the Americans almost three
to one; they had a powerful fleet to supply them and protect their rear flank;
and they were fighting against a polyglot army of untried men. Creoles and
English-speaking citizens of New Orleans; lean Kentuckians carrying their
rifles in the crooks of their arms; bronzed Acadians from the prairies and
bayous; small companies of mulattos and Negroes—"free men of color";
Mississippi dragoons and Tennesseans in homespun coats; Lafitte's Baratarians
and a small band of Choctaw Indians, indeed a polyglot army—but an army that
brought the British lion to her knees.

Ironically
the Battle of New Orleans was fought after the Treaty of Ghent was signed by
the British and United States negotiators on December 24, 1814. Word of the
treaty agreement did not reach the United States until February, and by then
the Battle of New Orleans was an accomplished fact.

The
United States ratified the treaty on February 16, 1815, and it is ironic that
there is no mention of British impressment of American seamen in the treaty—and
that was presumably one of the overriding reasons for the War of 1812.

Christopher
and Jason exchanged wry glances when at last a copy of the treaty reached New
Orleans. But neither saw any reason to comment on that curious, and yet not so
curious, oversight. America was at peace again and for the moment that was all
that mattered.

Walking
slowly toward Dauphine Street a short while later, Christopher ruefully
admitted that all he wanted now was peace within his own household—peace
between him and that stubborn little spitfire he had married and loved.

For
almost three months now, they had lived in a state of armed hostility—Nicole,
unbending, met his attempts at reconciliation with icy contempt. And
Christopher, uncertain how to proceed, withdrew behind a mask of indifference.

He
was very conscious that he had misjudged her, very aware that the wrong had
been his, and because he feared as he had feared nothing in his life to
alienate her further, his behavior was exactly the opposite of what it should
have been.

They
appeared to live separate lives—Christopher busy with his affairs and Nicole drawn
into the lively social circle of New Orleans. They attended functions together,
but only for the look of it, riding to and from the various affairs in deathly
silence, and at their destination promptly finding their own groups of friends,
most times never meeting until it was time to depart.

At
home they avoided each other. Christopher was up and gone many mornings before
Nicole arose, and most evenings he dined out with other acquaintances, leaving
Nicole to find her own amusements.

In
the beginning Christopher had tried to break through her wall of silence and
disillusionment, but because he had proceeded gently and delicately, instead of
with his usual arrogance and ruthlessness, Nicole had viewed his attempts as
only halfhearted.

He
had done one thing, though, that warmed her heart slightly and made her wonder
if perhaps all was not lost. Shortly after the final bloody battle with the
British, he had arranged for her to meet with Allen. It had been a short visit,
and staring unhappily at Allen through the bars of his cell, conscious of the
guard a few yards down the hall, Nicole had been vividly reminded of the
similar circumstance on Grand Terre.

For
several moments the two could think of nothing to say, but then Allen, with a
crooked grin, had murmured, "Either I am a singularly inept spy, or your
husband is my nemesis."

Nicole
swallowed, thinking uncomfortably that this time it was more her fault than
Christopher's that Allen was behind bars. Awkwardly she said, "Allen, I'm
sorry I didn't let you escape when you had the chance." Her eyes were huge
and beseeching on his blue ones as she said huskily, "But I couldn't let
you go—not knowing you might be the cause of Christopher's death! Please
understand!"

Allen
smiled almost gently. "I do, little one. I do. Although I don't really
relish the thought of hanging, I can't blame you for what you did." His
eyes filling with mockery, he added, "I could wish that you were not quite
so agile and hadn't such grim determination to stop me, though. What a little bulldog
you were."

"Don't
tease!" Nicole cried. Her hand curling around one of his as it rested on
the bars, she muttered, "I'll try to help you. Maybe they won't hang
you."

"Maybe
they won't. But they sure as hell aren't going to exchange me with the other
prisoners either! Spying is a little different than fighting on the honorable
field of battle." There was a certain bitterness in his tone that he
couldn't conceal. But shaking off the bleakness that crept through his bones,
he said lightly, "Mayhap you can get that husband of yours to do something
to lessen my punishment. From what I hear, he is very close to Claiborne and
Jackson both, and a loving wife has swayed more than one man."

Nicole
gave him a watery smile. Allen had enough to contend with without knowing that
he was the direct cause of the present terrible estrangement between her and
her husband. There had been little more to say, and with a quick, bone-crushing
clasp of hands they had said good-bye.

They
had not met again, and Nicole dared not ask Christopher what Allen's eventual
fate would be. She had not been blind to the fact that behind his fury and
accusations that last night had laid jealousy, and she dared not awaken it by
questions about Allen. And because she knew him to be jealous of Allen, his
actions in arranging the meeting between them had been all the more puzzling.
What had he hoped for—that they would somehow give him the proof he wanted? Yet
astonishingly she had thought for a second there had been an almost kind
expression in his eyes when he had informed her that she was to see Allen.
Christopher
kind?
Ridiculous! Quelling the promptings of her heart, she
cloaked herself in righteous anger, telling herself that Christopher was
unworthy of her love and not to be trusted.

But
in so doing, Nicole had backed herself into a corner, and now to her horror
discovered there was no way out of her predicament. She was ensconced in her
castle of icy disdain and Christopher showed every sign of letting her stay
there!

During
the weeks that followed the Battle of New Orleans, with the cessation of fear
of attack, Nicole had had time for cooler reflections. Without the worry of
assault on her mind, there had been room for more introspective thought—and it
was not pleasant.

Did
she really want to live out the rest of their days in this state of armed
indifference? Did she never want to feel Christopher's body take hers again?
The doors between their rooms had remained securely shut, Christopher denying
himself even the rights of a husband. Was all her pious fury worth never again
having the laughter and love that had been hers for those few short weeks? That
glimpse of paradise that had beckoned to both of them? The answer was a
resounding and heartfelt
no!

And
brutally honest with herself, she admitted that if she had come across
Christopher and any other woman in the same sort of situation that Christopher
had found her and Allen in, she would have leaped to precisely the same
conclusion. And if she would have thought that, could she really blame him for
believing as he had? Again the answer was an unpleasant no. Seated in her
elegant room, staring out glumly at the budding leaves on a huge pecan tree,
Nicole found herself in an appalling situation.

She
had repulsed Christopher's attempts to explain or mend the breach between them
with such icy scorn that he no longer tried. She had been so proud and fiery in
her disdain that Christopher had gradually withdrawn into himself, ignoring
her, treating her with cool politeness. How was she to climb down from this
seemingly impenetrable tower in which she had locked herself?